Gerfaut, v1 by Charles de Bernard

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GERFAUT

By CHARLES DE BERNARD

With a Preface by JULES CLARETIE, of the French Academy

CHARLES DE BERNARD

PIERRE-MARIE-CHARLES DE BERNARD DU GRAIL DE LA VILLETTE, better known bythe name of Charles de Bernard, was born in Besancon, February 24, 1804.He came from a very ancient family of the Vivarais, was educated at thecollege of his native city, and studied for the law in Dijon and atParis. He was awarded a prize by the 'Jeux floraux' for hisdithyrambics, 'Une fete de Neron' in 1829. This first success inliterature did not prevent him aspiring to the Magistrature, when theRevolution of 1830 broke out and induced him to enter politics. Hebecame one of the founders of the 'Gazette de Franche-Comte' and anarticle in the pages of this journal about 'Peau de chagrin' earned himthe thanks and the friendship of Balzac.

The latter induced him to take up his domicile in Paris and initiated himinto the art of novel-writing. Bernard had published a volume of odes:'Plus Deuil que Joie' (1838), which was not much noticed, but a series ofstories in the same year gained him the reputation of a genial 'conteur'.They were collected under the title 'Le Noeud Gordien', and one of thetales, 'Une Aventure du Magistrat, was adapted by Sardou for his comedy'Pommes du voisin'. 'Gerfaut', his greatest work, crowned by theAcademy, appeared also in 1838, then followed 'Le Paravent', anothercollection of novels (1839); 'Les Ailes d'Icare (1840); La Peau du Lionand La Chasse aux Amants (1841); L'Ecueil (1842); Un Beau-pere (1845);and finally Le Gentilhomme campagnard,' in 1847. Bernard died, onlyforty-eight years old, March 6, 1850.

Charles de Bernard was a realist, a pupil of Balzac. He surpasses hismaster, nevertheless, in energy and limpidity of composition. His styleis elegant and cultured. His genius is most fully represented in a scoreor so of delightful tales rarely exceeding some sixty or seventy pages inlength, but perfect in proportion, full of invention and originality, andsaturated with the purest and pleasantest essence of the spirit which forsix centuries in tableaux, farces, tales in prose and verse, comedies andcorrespondence, made French literature the delight and recreation ofEurope. 'Gerfaut' is considered De Bernard's greatest work. The plotturns on an attachment between a married woman and the hero of the story.The book has nothing that can justly offend, the incomparable sketches ofMarillac and Mademoiselle de Corandeuil are admirable; Gerfaut andBergenheim possess pronounced originality, and the author is, so tospeak, incarnated with the hero of his romance.

The most uncritical reader can not fail to notice the success with whichCharles de Bernard introduces people of rank and breeding into hisstories. Whether or not he drew from nature, his portraits of this kindare exquisitely natural and easy. It is sufficient to say that he is theliterary Sir Joshua Reynolds of the post-revolution vicomtes andmarquises. We can see that his portraits are faithful; we must feel thatthey are at the same time charming. Bernard is an amiable and spirited'conteur' who excels in producing an animated spectacle for a refined andselected public, whether he paints the ridiculousness or the misery ofhumanity.

The works of Charles de Bernard in wit and urbanity, and in the peculiarcharm that wit and urbanity give, are of the best French type. To anyelevation save a lofty place in fiction they have no claim; but in thatphase of literature their worth is undisputed, and from many testimoniesit would seem that those whom they most amuse are those who are bestworth amusing.

These novels, well enough as they are known to professed students ofFrench literature, have, by the mere fact of their age, rather slippedout of the list of books known to the general reader. The general readerwho reads for amusement can not possibly do better than proceed totransform his ignorance of them into knowledge.

JULES CLARETIE de l'Academie Francaise.

GERFAUT

BOOK 1.

CHAPTER I

THE TRAVELLER

During the first days of the month of September, 1832, a young man aboutthirty years of age was walking through one of the valleys in Lorraineoriginating in the Vosges mountains. A little river which, after a fewleagues of its course, flows into the Moselle, watered this wild basinshut in between two parallel lines of mountains. The hills in the southbecame gradually lower and finally dwindled away into the plain.Alongside the plateau, arranged in amphitheatres, large square fieldsstripped of their harvest lay here and there in the primitive forest; inother places, innumerable oaks and elms had been dethroned to give placeto plantations of cherry-trees, whose symmetrical rows promised anabundant harvest.

This contest of nature with industry is everywhere, but is morepronounced in hilly countries. The scene changed, however, as onepenetrated farther, and little by little the influence of the soil gainedascendancy. As the hills grew nearer together, enclosing the valley in acloser embrace, the clearings gave way to the natural obduracy of thesoil. A little farther on they disappeared entirely. At the foot of oneof the bluffs which bordered with its granite bands the highest plateauof the mountain, the forest rolled victoriously down to the banks of theriver.

Now came patches of forest, like solid battalions of infantry; sometimessolitary trees appeared, as if distributed by chance upon the grassyslopes, or scaling the summit of the steepest rocks like a body of boldsharpshooters. A little, unfrequented road, if one can judge from thescarcity of tracks, ran alongside the banks of the stream, climbing upand down hills; overcoming every obstacle, it stretched out in almost astraight line. One might compare it to those strong characters who markout a course in life and imperturbably follow it. The river, on thecontrary, like those docile and compliant minds that bend to agreeableemergencies, described graceful curves, obeying thus the caprices of thesoil which served as its bed.

At a first glance, the young man who was walking alone in the midst ofthis picturesque country seemed to have nothing remarkable in his dress;a straw hat, a blue blouse and linen trousers composed his costume.It would have been very natural to take him for an Alsatian peasantreturning to his village through the Vosges's rough pathways; but a moreattentive glance quickly dispelled this conjecture. There is somethingin the way in which a person wears the plainest costume which betrays thereal man, no matter how he may be clothed. Thus, nothing could be moremodest than this traveller's blouse, but the absence on collar andsleeves of the arabesques in white or red thread, the pride of allvillage dandies, was sufficient for one to realize that this was not afancy costume.

His expressive, but not handsome face was dark, it is true, but it didnot look as if wind or sun had contributed to its complexion; it seemedrather to have lost by a sedentary life something of the southerncarnation, which had ended by blending these warmer tints into a deaduniform pallor. Finally, if, as one may suppose after differentdiagnoses, this person had the slightest desire to play the role ofTyrcis or Amintas, his white hand, as carefully cared for as a prettywoman's, would have been sufficient to betray him. It was evident thatthe man was above his costume; a rare thing! The lion's ears pierced theass's skin this time.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon; the sky, which had been overcastall the morning, had assumed, within a few moments, a more sombre aspect;large clouds were rapidly moving from south to north, rolled one overanother by an ominous wind. So the traveller, who had just entered thewildest part of the valley, seemed very little disposed to admire itsfine vegetation and romantic sites. Impatient to reach the end of hisjourney, or fearing the approaching storm, he quickened his steps; butthis pace was not kept long. At the end of a few moments, having crosseda small clearing, he found himself at the entrance of a lawn where theroad divided in two directions, one continuing to skirt the river banks,the other, broader and better built, turning to the left into a windingravine.

Which of these two roads should he follow? He did not know. Theprofound solitude of the place made him fear that he might not meet anyone who could direct him, when the sound of a psalm vigorously chantedreached his ears from the distance. Soon it became more distinct, and herecognized the words, 'In exitu Israel de Egypto', sung at the top of thelungs by a voice so shrill that it would have irritated the larynx of anyof the sopranos at the Opera. Its vibrating but sharp tones resounded soclearly in the dead silence of the forest that a number of stanzas werefinished before the pious musician came in sight. At last a drove ofcattle appeared through the trees which bordered the road on the left,walking with a slow, grave step; they were driven by a little shepherdabout nine or ten years of age, who interrupted his song from time totime to reassemble the members of his flock with heavy blows from hiswhip, thus uniting temporal cares with those of a spiritual nature with acoolness which the most important personages might have envied him.

"Which of these roads leads to Bergenheim?" called out the travellerwhen they were near enough to speak to each other.

"Bergenheim!" repeated the child, taking off his cotton cap, which wasstriped like a rainbow, and adding a few words in an unintelligibleGallo-Germanic patois.

"You are not French, then?" asked the stranger, in a disappointed tone.

The shepherd raised his head proudly and replied:

"I am Alsatian, not French!"

The young man smiled at this trait of local patriotism so common then inthe beautiful province by the Rhine; then he thought that pantomime mightbe necessary, so he pointed with his finger first at one road, then atthe other:

"There or there, Bergenheim?" asked he.

The child, in his turn, pointed silently with the tip of his whip to thebanks of the river, designating, at some distance on the other side, athicket of woods behind which a slight column of smoke was rising.

"The deuce!" murmured the stranger, "it seems that I have gone astray;if the chateau is on the other side, where can I establish my ambuscade?"

The shepherd seemed to understand the traveller's embarrassment. Gazingat him with his intelligent blue eyes, he traced, with the tip of his toein the middle of the road, a furrow across which he rounded his whip likethe arch of a bridge; then he pointed a second time up the river.

"You are an honor to your country, young fellow," exclaimed the stranger;"there is the material in you to make one of Cooper's redskins." As hesaid these words he threw a piece of money into the child's cap andwalked rapidly away in the direction indicated.

The Alsatian stood motionless for a few moments with one hand in hisblond hair and his eyes fastened upon the piece of silver which shonelike a star in the bottom of his cap; when the one whom he considered asa model of extraordinary generosity had disappeared behind the trees, hegave vent to his joy by heavy blows from his whip upon the backs of thecattle, then he resumed his way, singing in a still more triumphant tone:'Mantes exultaverunt ut arites', and jumping higher himself than all thehills and rams in the Bible.

The young man had not walked more than five minutes before he recognizedthe correctness of the directions he had received. The ground which hehad passed over was a field covered with clumps of low trees; it was easyto see by its disc-like shape that it had been formed by successivealluvia, at the expense of the other shore, which had been incessantlyworn away by the stream. This sort of flat, level peninsula was crossedin a straight line by the road, which deviated from the river at thepoint where the two roads came together again, like the cross and stringof a bow at its extremity. The trees, becoming thinner, revealed aperspective all the more wonderful as it was unexpected. While the eyefollowed the widening stream, which disappeared in the depths of amountainous gorge, a new prospect suddenly presented itself on the rightupon the other shore.

A second valley, smaller than the first and in measure its vassal, formedan amphitheatre the crest of which was bordered by a fringe ofperpendicular rocks as white as dried bones. Under this crown, whichrendered it almost inaccessible, the little valley was resplendent in itswealth of evergreen trees, oaks with their knotty branches, and its freshgreen turf.

Taken as a whole, it was a foundation worthy of the picturesque edificewhich met one's eye in the foreground, and at which the traveller gazedwith extreme interest.

At the junction of the two valleys stood an enormous building, halfmanorial, half monastic in appearance. The shore formed, at this point,for an extent of several hundred feet, a bluff whose edge plungedvertically into the river. The chateau and its outbuildings rested uponthis solid base. The principal house was a large parallelogram of veryold construction, but which had evidently been almost entirely rebuilt atthe beginning of the sixteenth century. The stones, of grayish granitewhich abounds in the Vosges, were streaked with blue and violet veins,and gave the facade a sombre aspect, increased by the scarcity ofwindows, some of which were 'a la Palladio', others almost as narrow asloop-holes. An immense roof of red tile, darkened by rain, projectedseveral feet over the whole front, as is still to be seen in old citiesin the North. Thanks to this projecting weather-board, the apartmentsupon the upper floor were shaded from the sun's rays, like those personswho have weak eyes and who protect them from a strong light by wearing agreen shade.

The view which this melancholy dwelling presented from the place wherethe traveller had first seen it, was one which made it appear to the bestadvantage; it seemed, from this point, to come immediately out of theriver, built as it was upon the very curb of the bluffs, at this place atleast thirty feet high. This elevation, added to that of the building,effaced the lack of proportion of the roof and gave to the whole a mostimposing appearance; it seemed as if the rocks were a part of thebuilding to which it served as foundation, for the stones had ended byassuming the same color, and it would have been difficult to discover thejunction of man's work and that of nature, had it not been outlined by amassive iron balcony running across the entire length of the first story,whence one could enjoy the pleasure of line-fishing. Two round towerswith pointed roofs stood at each corner of the facade and seemed to gazewith proud satisfaction at their own reflection in the water.

A long line of sycamore-trees skirted the banks of the river, beginningfrom the foot of the chateau, and forming the edge of a park whichextended to the back of the double valley. A little wooden bridgeconnected this sort of avenue with the road the traveller had just passedover; but the latter did not seem disposed to profit by this silentinvitation to which large raindrops gave more emphasis. He was soabsorbed in his meditation that, to arouse him, it needed the sound of agruff voice behind him uttering these words:

"That is what I call an ugly castle! It is hardly as good as our commoncountry houses around Marseilles."

The stranger turned quickly around and found himself face to face with aman wearing a gray cap and carrying his coat upon his shoulder, asworkmen do in the South. He held in his hand a knotty stick which hadbeen recently cut. The newcomer had a swarthy complexion, harshfeatures, and deep-set eyes which gave his face an ugly, falseexpression.

"I said an ugly castle," continued he. "However, the cage is made forthe bird."

"It seems, then, that you do not like its master?" said the traveller.

"The master!" repeated the workman, seizing hold of his stick with athreatening air, "Monsieur le Baron de Bergenheim, as they say! He isrich and a nobleman, and I am only a poor carpenter. Well, then, if youstay here a few days, you will witness a comical ceremony; I shall makethis brigand repent."

"Brigand!" exclaimed the stranger, in a surprised tone. "What has hedone to you?"

"Yes, brigand! you may tell him so from me. But, by the way," continuedthe workman, surveying his companion from head to foot with a searching,defiant air, "do you happen to be the carpenter who is coming fromStrasbourg? In that case, I have a few words to say to you. Lambernierdoes not allow any one to take the bread out of his mouth in that way; doyou understand?"

The young man seemed very little moved by this declaration.

"I am not a carpenter," said he, smiling, "and I have no wish for yourwork."

"Truly, you do not look as if you had pushed a plane very often. Itseems that in your business one does not spoil one's hands. You are aworkman about as much as I am pope."

This remark made the one to whom it was addressed feel in as bad a humoras an author does when he finds a grammatical error in one of his books.

"So you work at the chateau, then," said he, finally, to change theconversation.

"For six months I have worked in that shanty," replied the workman;"I am the one who carved the new woodwork, and I will say it is welldone. Well, this great wild boar of a Bergenheim turned me out of thehouse yesterday as if I had been one of his dogs."

"He doubtless had his reasons."

"I tell you, I will crush him--reasons! Damn it! They told him I talkedtoo often with his wife's maid and quarrelled with the servants, a packof idlers! Did he not forbid my putting my foot upon his land? I amupon his land now; let him come and chase me off; let him come, he willsee how I shall receive him. Do you see this stick? I have just cut itin his own woods to use it on himself!"

The young man no longer listened to the workman; his eyes were turnedtoward the castle, whose slightest details he studied, as if he hopedthat in the end the stone would turn into glass and let him see theinterior. If this curiosity had any other object than the architectureand form of the building it was not gratified. No human figure came toenliven this sad, lonely dwelling. All the windows were closed, as ifthe house were uninhabited. The baying of dogs, probably imprisoned intheir kennel, was the only sound which came to break the strange silence,and the distant thunder, with its dull rumbling, repeated by the echoes,responded plaintively, and gave a lugubrious character to the scene.

"When one speaks of the devil he appears," said the workman, suddenly,with an emotion which gave the lie to his recent bravado; "if you wish tosee this devil incarnate of a Bergenheim, just turn your head. Good-by."

At these words he leaped a ditch at the left of the road and disappearedin the bushes. The stranger also seemed to feel an impression very likethat of Lambernier's as he saw a man on horseback advancing on a gallop.Instead of waiting for him, he darted into the field which descended tothe river, and hid behind a group of trees.

The Baron, who was not more than thirty-three years of age, had one ofthose energetic, handsome faces whose type seems to belong particularlyto old military families. His bright, blond hair and clear, blue eyescontrasted strongly with his ruddy complexion; his aspect was severe, butnoble and imposing, in spite of his negligent dress, which showed thatindifference to matters of personal attire which becomes habitual withcountry lords. His tall figure was beginning to grow stout, and thatincreased his athletic appearance. He sat very erect in his saddle, andfrom the way in which he straightened out his long legs against the sidesof his beast, one suspected that he could, if necessary, repeat theMarshal de Saxe's feats of skill. He stopped his horse suddenly at thevery spot which the two men had just vacated and called out in a voicewhich would startle a regiment of cuirassiers:

"Here, Lambernier!"

The carpenter hesitated a moment, at this imperative call, between thefear which he could not overcome and shame at fleeing from a single manin the presence of a witness; finally this last feeling triumphed.He returned to the edge of the road without saying a word, and stationedhimself in an insolent way face to face with the Baron, with his hatdrawn down over his ears, and grasped through precaution the knotty stickwhich served him as a weapon.

"Lambernier," said the master of the castle, in a severe tone, "youraccount was settled yesterday; was it not paid in full? Is anything dueyou?"

"I ask nothing of you," replied the workman, brusquely.

"In that case, why are you wandering about my place when I forbade you?"

"I am upon the highway, nobody can prevent me from passing there."

"You are upon my land, and you came out of my woods," replied the Baron,emphasizing his words with the firmness of a man who would permit noviolation of his rights as a landowner.

"The ground upon which I walk is mine," said the workman, in his turn, ashe struck the end of his stick upon the ground as if to take possession.This gesture attracted Bergenheim's attention, and his eyes flashed witha sudden light at the sight of the stick which Lambernier held.

"You scoundrel!" he exclaimed, "you probably regard my trees also asyour own. Where did you cut that stick?"

"Go and find out," said the workman, accompanying his reply with aflourish of the stick.

The Baron coolly dismounted, threw the bridle over his horse's neck,walked up to the workman, who had taken the position of a practisedpugilist to receive him, and, without giving him time to strike, hedisarmed him with one hand by a blow which would have been sufficient touproot the beech rod before it was metamorphosed into a club; with theother hand he seized the man by the collar and gave him a shaking that itwas as impossible to struggle against as if it had been caused by asteam-engine. Obeying this irresistible force, in spite of his kicking,Lambernier described a dozen circles around his adversary, while thelatter set these off with some of the hardest blows from green wood thatever chastised an insolent fellow. This gymnastic exercise ended by asleight-of-hand trick, which, after making the carpenter pirouette forthe last time, sent him rolling head-first into a ditch, the bottom ofwhich, fortunately for him, was provided with a bed of soft mud. Whenthe punishment was over, Bergenheim remounted his horse as tranquilly ashe had dismounted it, and continued his way toward the chateau.

The young man, in the midst of the thicket where he was concealed, hadlost no detail of this rural scene. He could not help having a feelingof admiration for this energetic representative of the feudal ages who,with no fear of any court of justice or other bourgeois inventions, hadthus exerted over his own domains the summary justice in force in Easterncountries.

"France has thrashed Gaul," said he, smiling to himself; "if all our menhad this Bergenheim's iron fist many things determined upon to-day mightbe called in question. If I ever have the slightest difficulty with thisMilo de Crotona, he may be sure I shall not choose pugilism as my mode ofdiscussion."

The storm now burst forth in all its fury. A dark curtain covered thewhole valley, and the rain fell in torrents. The Baron put spurs to hishorse, crossed the bridge and, entering the sycamore avenue, was soon outof sight. Without paying any attention to Lambernier, who was utteringimprecations at the bottom of the ditch, into which he was sinking deeperand deeper, the stranger went to seek a less illusive shelter than thetrees under which he had taken his position; but at this moment hisattention was attracted to one side of the castle. A window, or rathera glass door, just then opened upon the balcony, and a young woman in arose-colored negligee appeared upon the dark facade. It would beimpossible to imagine anything more fresh or charming than thisapparition at such a moment. Leaning upon the balustrade, the youngwoman rested her face upon a hand which was as white as a lily, and herfinger smoothed with a mechanical caress the ringlets of chestnut hairthat lay upon her forehead, while her large brown eyes gazed into thedepths of the clouds from which the lightning was flashing, and withwhich they vied in brilliancy. A poet would have said it was Mirandaevoked by the tempest.

The stranger parted the branches before him to get a better view; at thesame instant he was blinded by a terrible flash which lighted the wholevalley and was immediately followed by a terrific crash. When he openedhis eyes the chateau which he believed to be at the bottom of the riverstood still upright, solemn, and firm as before; but the lady in therose-colored gown had disappeared.

CHAPTER II

THE CASTLE OF BERGENHEIM

The appearance of the room into which the lady had precipitately entered,when startled by the thunder, corresponded with the edifice to which itbelonged. It was a very large room, longer than it was wide, and lightedby three windows, the middle one of which opened from top to bottom likea door and led out upon the balcony. The woodwork and ceiling were inchestnut, which time had polished and a skilful hand had ornamented witha profusion of allegorical figures. The beauty of this work of art wasalmost entirely concealed by a very remarkable decoration which coveredevery side of the room, consisting of one of the most gloriouscollections of family portraits which a country chateau of the nineteenthcentury could offer.

The first of these portraits hung opposite the windows at the right ofthe entrance door and was that of a chevalier in full armor, whose teethgleamed from under his long moustache like those of an untamed tiger.Beginning with this formidable figure, which bore the date 1247, fortyothers of about the same dimensions were placed in order according totheir dates. It seemed as if each period had left its mark upon those ofthe personages it had seen live and die, and had left something of itsown character there.

There were more gallant cavaliers cut after the same pattern as thefirst. Their stern, harsh faces, red beards, and broad, square militaryshoulders told that by swordthrusts and broken lances they had foundedthe nobility of their race. An heroic preface to this family biography!A rough and warlike page of the Middle Ages! After these proud men-of-arms came several figures of a less ferocious aspect, but not soimposing. In these portraits of the fifteenth century beards haddisappeared with the sword. In those wearing caps and velvet toques,silk robes and heavy gold chains supporting a badge of the same metal,one recognized lords in full and tranquil possession of the fiefs won bytheir fathers, landowners who had degenerated a little and preferredmountain life in a manor to the chances of a more hazardous existence.These pacific gentlemen were, for the most part, painted with the lefthand gloved and resting upon the hip; the right one was bare, a sort oftoken of disarmament which one might take for a painter's epigram.Some of them had allowed their favorite dogs to share the honors of thepicture. All in this group indicated that this branch of the family hadmany points of resemblance with the more illustrious faces. It was theperiod of idle kings.

A half dozen solemn personages with gold-braided hats and long red robesbordered with ermine, and wearing starched ruffles, occupied one cornerof the parlor near the windows. These worthy advisers of the Dukes ofLorraine explained the way in which the masters of the chateau hadawakened from the torpor in which they had been plunged for severalgenerations, in order to participate in the affairs of their country andenter a more active sphere.

Here the portraits assumed the proportions of history. Did not thisbranch, descended from warlike stock, seem like a fragment taken from theEuropean annals? Was it not a symbolical image of the progress ofcivilization, of regular legislation struggling against barbaric customs?Thanks to these respectable counsellors and judges, one might reverse themotto: 'Non solum toga', in favor of their race. But it did not seem asif these bearded ancestors looked with much gratitude upon thisparliamentary flower added to their feudal crest. They appeared to lookdown from the height of their worm-eaten frames upon their enrobeddescendants with that disdainful smile with which the peers of Franceused to greet men of law the first time they were called to sit by theirside, after being for so long a time at their feet.

In the space between the windows and upon the remaining woodwork was acrowd of military men, with here and there an Abbe with cross and mitre,a Commander of Malta, and a solemn Canon, sterile branches of thisgenealogical tree. Several among the military ones wore sashes andplumes of the colors of Lorraine; others, even before the union of thisprovince to France, had served the latter country; there were lieutenant-colonels of infantry and cavalry; some dressed in blue coats lined withbuff serge and little round patches of black plush, which served as theuniform for the dragoons of the Lorraine legion.

Last of all was a young man with an agreeable face, who smiledsuperciliously from under a vast wig of powdered hair; a rose was in thebuttonhole of his green cloth pelisse with orange facings, a redsabrecache hung against his boots a little lower than the hilt of hissabre. The costume represented a sprightly officer of the Royal Nassauhussars. The portrait was hung on the left of the entrance door and onlyseparated by it from his great-grandfather of 1247, whom he might haveassisted, had these venerable portraits taken some night a fancy todescend from their frames to execute a dance such as Hoffmann dreamed.

These two persons were the alpha and the omega of this genealogical tree,the two extreme links of the chain-one, the root buried in the sands oftime; the other, the branch which had blossomed at the top. Fate hadcreated a tragical resemblance between these two lives, separated by morethan five centuries. The chevalier in coat-of-mail had been killed inthe battle of the Mansourah during the first crusade of St. Louis. Theyoung man with the supercilious smile had mounted the scaffold during theReign of Terror, holding between his lips a rose, his usual decorationfor his coat. The history of the French nobility was embodied in thesetwo men, born in blood, who had died in blood.

Large gilded frames of Gothic style surrounded all these portraits. Atthe right, on the bottom of each picture was painted a little escutcheonhaving for its crest a baronial coronet and for supports two wild menarmed with clubs. The field was red; with its three bulls' heads insilver, it announced to people well versed in heraldic art that they hadbefore them the lineaments of noble and powerful lords, squires ofReisnach-Bergenheim, lords of Reisnach in Suabia, barons of the HolyEmpire, lords of Sapois, Labresse, Gerbamont, etc., counts of Bergenheim,the latter title granted them by Louis XV, chevaliers of Lorraine, etc.,etc., etc.

This ostentatious enumeration was not needed in order to recognize thekindred of all these noble personages. Had they been mingled with otherportraits, a careful observer would have promptly distinguished andreunited them, so pronounced were the family features common to them all.The furniture of the room was not unworthy of these proud defunct ones.High-backed chairs and enormous armchairs, dating from the time of LouisXIII; more modern sofas, which had been made to harmonize with the olderfurniture, filled the room. They were covered with flowered tapestry inthousands of shades, which must have busied the white hands of the ladiesof the house for two or three generations past.

The row of portraits was interrupted on one side by a large fireplace ofgrayish granite, which was too high for one to hang a mirror above or toplace ornaments upon its mantel. Opposite was an ebony console inlaidwith ivory, upon which was placed one of those elegant clocks whosedelicate and original chased work has not been eclipsed by any modernworkmanship. Two large Japanese vases accompanied it; the whole wasreflected in an antique mirror which hung above the console; its edgeswere bevelled, doubtless in order to cause one to admire the thickness ofthe glass.

It would be impossible to imagine a stronger contrast than that of thisGothic room with the lady in the rose-colored gown who had just enteredit so precipitately. The fire upon the hearth threw a warm light overthe old portraits, and it was heightened by the heavy, red damaskcurtains which hung by the windows. The light sometimes softened,sometimes revivified by some sudden flash of the flames, glanced over thescowling faces and red beards, enlivening the eyes and giving asupernatural animation to those lifeless canvases. One would have saidthat the cold, grave faces looked with curiosity at the young woman withgraceful movements and cool garments, whom Aladdin's genii seemed to havetransported from the most elegant boudoir on the Chaussee d'Antin, andthrown, still frightened, into the midst of this strange assembly.

"You are crazy, Clemence, to leave that window open!" said at thismoment an old voice issuing from an armchair placed in a corner near thefireplace.

The person who broke the charm of this silent scene was a woman of sixtyor seventy years of age, according to the gallantry of the calculator.It was easy to judge that she was tall and thin as she lay, rather thansat, in her chair with its back lowered down. She was dressed in ayellowish-brown gown. A false front as black as jet, surmounted by a capwith poppy-colored ribbons, framed her face. She had sharp, witheredfeatures, and the brilliancy of her primitive freshness had beenconverted into a blotched and pimpled complexion which affected above allher nose and cheek-bones, but whose ardor had been dimmed only a trifleby age. There was something about the whole face as crabbed, sour, andunkind as if she had daily bathed it in vinegar. One could read old maidin every feature! Besides, a slight observation of her ways would havedestroyed all lingering doubt in this respect.

A large, coffee-colored pug-dog was lying before the fire. Thisinteresting animal served as a footstool for his mistress, stretched inher easy-chair, and recalled to mind the lions which sleep at the foot ofchevaliers in their Gothic tombs. As a pug-dog and an old maid pertainto each other, it was only necessary, in order to divine this venerablelady's state, to read the name upon the golden circlet which served as acollar for the dog: "Constance belongs to Mademoiselle de Corandeuil."

Before the younger lady, who was leaning upon the back of a chair,seeming to breathe with difficulty, had time to reply, she received asecond injunction.

"But, aunt," said she, at last, "it was a horrible crash! Did you nothear it?"

"I am not so deaf as that yet," replied the old maid. "Shut that window;do you not know that currents of air attract lightning?"

Clemence obeyed, dropping the curtain to shut out the flashes oflightning which continued to dart through the heavens; she thenapproached the fireplace.

"Since you are so afraid of lightning," said her aunt; "which, by theway, is perfectly ridiculous in a Corandeuil, what induced you to go outupon the balcony? The sleeve of your gown is wet. That is the way onegets cold; afterward, there is nothing but an endless array of syrups anddrugs. You ought to change your gown and put on something warmer. Whowould ever think of dressing like that in such weather as this?"

"I assure you, aunt, it is not cold. It is because you have a habit ofalways being near the fire--"

"Ah! habit! when you are my age you will not hint at such a thing. Now,everything goes wonderfully well; you never listen to my advice--you goout in the wind and rain with that flighty Aline and your husband, whohas no more sense than his sister; you will pay for it later. Open thecurtains, I pray; the storm is over, and I wish to read the Gazette."

The young woman obeyed a second time and stood with her forehead pressedagainst the glass. The distant rumbling of the thunder announced the endof the storm; but a few flashes still traversed the horizon.

"Aunt," said she, after a moment's silence, "come and look at theMontigny rocks; when the lightning strikes them they look like a file ofsilver columns or a procession of ghosts."

"What a romantic speech," growled the old lady, never taking her eyesfrom her paper.

"I assure you I am not romantic the least in the world," repliedClemence. "I simply find the storm a distraction, and here, you know,there is no great choice of pleasures."

"Then you find it dull?"

"Oh, aunt, horribly so!" At these words, pronounced with a heartfeltaccent, the young woman dropped into an armchair.

Mademoiselle de Corandeuil took off her eye-glasses, put the paper uponthe table and gazed for several moments at her pretty niece's face, whichwas tinged with a look of deep melancholy. She then straightened herselfup in her chair, and, leaning forward, asked in a low tone:

"Have you had any trouble with your husband?"

"If so, I should not be so bored," replied Clemence, in a gay tone, whichshe repented immediately, for she continued more calmly:

"No, aunt; Christian is kind, very kind; he is very much attached to me,and full of good-humor and attentions. You have seen how he has allowedme to arrange my apartments to suit myself, even taking down thepartition and enlarging the windows; and yet, you know how much he clingsto everything that is old about the house. He tries to do everything formy pleasure. Did he not go to Strasbourg the other day to buy a pony forme, because I thought Titania was too skittish? It would be impossibleto show greater kindness."

"Your husband," suddenly interrupted Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, for sheheld the praise of others in sovereign displeasure, "is a Bergenheim likeall the Bergenheims present, past, and future, including your littlesister-in-law, who appears more as if she had been brought up with boysthan at the 'Sacred Heart.' He is a worthy son of his father there,"said she, pointing to one of the portraits near the young Royal-Nassauofficer; "and he was the most brutal, unbearable, and detestable of allthe dragoons in Lorraine; so much so that he got into three quarrels atNancy in one month, and at Metz, over a game of checkers, he killed thepoor Vicomte de Megrigny, who was worth a hundred of him and danced sowell! Some one described Bergenheim as being 'proud as a peacock, asstubborn as a mule, and as furious as a lion!' Ugly race! ugly race!What I say to you now, Clemence, is to excuse your husband's faults, forit would be time lost to try to correct them. However, all men arealike; and since you are Madame de Bergenheim, you must accept your fateand bear it as well as possible. And then, if you have your troubles,you still have your good aunt to whom you can confide them and who willnot allow you to be tyrannized over. I will speak to your husband."

Clemence saw, from the first words of this tirade, that she must armherself with resignation; for anything which concerned the Bergenheimsaroused one of the hobbies which the old maid rode with a most complacentspite; so she settled herself back in her chair like a person who wouldat least be comfortable while she listened to a tiresome discourse, andbusied herself during this lecture caressing with the tip of a veryshapely foot the top of one of the andirons.

"But, aunt," said she at last, when the tirade was over, and she gave arather drawling expression to her voice, "I can not understand why youhave taken this idea into your head that Christian renders me unhappy.I repeat it, it is impossible that one should be kinder to me than he,and, on my side, I have the greatest respect and friendship for him."

"Very well, if he is such a pearl of husbands, if you live so much liketurtle-doves-and, to tell the truth, I do not believe a word of it--whatcauses this ennui of which you complain and which has been perfectlynoticeable for some time? When I say ennui, it is more than that; it issadness, it is grief? You grow thinner every day; you are as pale as aghost; just at this moment, your complexion is gone; you will end bybeing a regular fright. They say that it is the fashion to be palenowadays; a silly notion, indeed, but it will not last, for complexionmakes the woman."

The old lady said this like a person who had her reasons for not likingpale complexions, and who gladly took pimples for roses.

Madame de Bergenheim bowed her head as if to acquiesce in this decision,and then resumed in her drawling voice:

"I know that I am very unreasonable, and I am often vexed with myself forhaving so little control over my feelings, but it is beyond my strength.I have a tired sensation, a disgust for everything, something which I cannot overcome. It is an inexplicable physical and moral languor,for which, for this reason, I see no remedy. I am weary and I suffer;I am sure it will end in my being ill. Sometimes I wish I were dead.However, I have really no reason to be unhappy. I suppose I am happy--I ought to be happy."

"Truly, I can not understand in the least the women of today. Formerly,upon exciting occasions, we had a good nervous attack and all was over;the crisis passed, we became amiable again, put on rouge and went to aball. Now it is languor, ennui, stomach troubles--all imagination andhumbug! The men are just as bad, and they call it spleen! Spleen!a new discovery, an English importation! Fine things come to us fromEngland; to begin with, the constitutional government! All this isperfectly ridiculous. As for you, Clemence, you ought to put an end tosuch childishness. Two months ago, in Paris, you did not have any of therest that you enjoy here. I had serious reasons for wishing to delay mydeparture; my apartment to refurnish, my neuralgia which still troublesme--and Constance, who had just been in the hands of the doctor, washardly in a condition to travel, poor creature! You would listen tonothing; we had to submit to your caprices, and now--"

"But, aunt, you admitted yourself that it was the proper thing for me todo, to join my husband. Was it not enough, and too much, to have lefthim to pass the entire winter alone here while I was dancing in Paris?"

"It was very proper, of course, and I do not blame you. But why does thevery thing you so much desired two months ago bore you so terribly now?In Paris you talked all the time of Bergenheim, longed only forBergenheim, you had duties to fulfil, you wished to be with your husband;you bothered and wore me out with your conjugal love. When back atBergenheim, you dream and sigh for Paris. Do not shake your head; I aman old aunt to whom you pay no heed, but who sees clearly yet. Will youdo me the favor to tell me what it is that you regret in Paris at thistime of the year, when there are no balls or parties, and not one humanbeing worth visiting, for all the people you know are in the country? Isit because--"

Mademoiselle de Corandeuil did not finish her sentence, but she put aseverity into these three words which seemed to condense all thequintessence of prudery that a celibacy of sixty years could coagulate inan old maid's heart.

Clemence raised her eyes to her aunt's face as if to demand anexplanation.

It was such a calm, steady glance that the latter could not help beingimpressed by it.

"Well," said she, softening her voice, "there is no necessity for puttingon such queenly airs; we are here alone, and you know that I am a kindaunt to you. Now, then, speak freely--have you left anything or anyperson in Paris, the remembrance of which makes your sojourn here moretiresome than it really is? Any of your adorers of the winter?"

"What an idea, aunt! Did I have any adorers?" exclaimed Madame deBergenheim, quickly, as if trying to conceal by a smile the rosy flushthat mounted to her cheeks.

"And what if you should have some, child?" continued the old maid, towhom curiosity lent an unaccustomed coaxing accent to her voice, "wherewould be the harm? Is it forbidden to please? When one is of goodbirth, must one not live in society and hold one's position there? Oneneed not bury one's self in a desert at twenty-three years of age, andyou really are charming enough to inspire love; you understand, I do notsay, to experience it; but when one is young and pretty conquests aremade almost unwittingly. You are not the first of the family to whomthat has happened; you are a Corandeuil. Now, then, my good Clemence,what troubled heart is pining for you in Paris? Is it Monsieur deMauleon?"

"Monsieur de Mauleon!" exclaimed the young woman, bursting intolaughter; "he, a heart! and a troubled one, too! Oh, aunt, you do himhonor! Monsieur de Mauleon, who is past forty-five years old and wearsstays! an audacious man who squeezes his partners' hands in the dance andlooks at them with passionate glances! Oh! Monsieur de Mauleon!"

Mademoiselle de Corandeuil sanctioned by a slight grimace of her thinlips her niece's burst of gayety, when, with one hand upon her heart, sherolled her sparkling eyes in imitation of the languishing air of herunfortunate adorer.

"Perhaps it is Monsieur d'Arzenac?"

"Monsieur d'Arzenac is certainly very nice; he has perfect manners; itmay be that he did not disdain to chat with me; on my side, I found hisconversation very entertaining; but you may rest assured that he did notthink of me nor I of him. Besides, you know that he is engaged to marryMademoiselle de la Neuville."

"Monsieur de Gerfaut?" continued Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, with thepersistency with which aged people follow an idea, and as if determinedto pass in review all the young men of their acquaintance until she haddiscovered her niece's secret.

The latter was silent a moment before replying.

"How can you think of such a thing, aunt?" said she at last, "a man withsuch a bad reputation, who writes books that one hardly dares read, andplays that it's almost a sin to witness! Did you not hear Madame dePontivers say that a young woman who cared for her reputation wouldpermit his visits very rarely?"

"Madame de Pontivers is a prude, whom I can not endure, with her show oflittle, grimaces and her pretentious, outrageous mock-modesty. Did shenot take it into her head this winter to constitute me her chaperon?I gave her to understand that a widow forty years old was quite oldenough to go about alone! She has a mania for fearing that she may becompromised. The idea of turning up her nose at Monsieur de Gerfaut!What presumption! He certainly is too clever ever to solicit the honorof being bored to death in her house; for he is clever, very clever. Inever could understand your dislike for him, nor your haughty manner oftreating him; especially, during the latter part of our stay in Paris."

"One is not mistress of one's dislikes or affections, aunt. But to replyto your questions, I will say that you may rest assured that none ofthese gentlemen, nor any of those whom you might name, has the slightesteffect upon my state of mind. I am bored because it probably is mynature to need distractions, and there are none in this deserted place.It is an involuntary disagreeableness, for which I reproach myself andwhich I hope will pass away. Rest assured, that the root of the evildoes not lie in my heart."

Mademoiselle de Corandeuil understood by the cold and rather dry tone inwhich these words were spoken that her niece wished to keep her secret,if she had one; she could not prevent a gesture of anger as she saw heradvances thus repelled, but felt that she was no wiser than when shebegan the conversation. She manifested her disappointment by pushing thedog aside with her foot--the poor thing was perfectly innocent!--and in across tone, which was much more familiar than her former coaxing one, shecontinued:

"Very well, since I am wrong, since your husband adores you and you him,since, to sum it all up, your heart is perfectly tranquil and free, yourconduct is devoid of common-sense, and I advise you to change it. I warnyou that all this hypochondria, paleness, and languor are caprices whichare very disagreeable to others. There is a Provence proverb which says:Vaillance de Blacas, prudence de Pontevez, caprice de Corandeuil. Ifthere was not such a saying, it should be created for you, for you havesomething incomprehensible enough in your character to make a saintswear. If anybody should know you, it is I, who brought you up. I donot wish to reproach you, but you gave me trouble enough; you were a mostwayward, capricious, and fantastic creature, a spoiled child--"

"Aunt," interrupted Clemence, with heightened color in her pale cheeks,"you have told me of my faults often enough for me to know them, and, ifthey were not corrected, it was not your fault, for you never spared mescoldings. If I had not been so unfortunate as to lose my mother when Iwas a baby, I should not have given you so much trouble."

Tears came into the young woman's eyes, but she had enough control overherself to keep them from streaming down her burning cheeks. Taking ajournal from the table, she opened it, in order to conceal her emotionand to put an end to this conversation, which had become painful to her.Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, on her side, carefully replaced her eye-glasses upon her nose, and, solemnly stretching herself upon her chair,she turned over the leaves of the 'Gazette de France,' which she hadneglected so long.

Silence reigned for some moments in the room. The aunt apparently readthe paper very attentively. Her niece sat motionless, with her eyesfastened upon the yellow cover of the last number of 'La Mode,' which hadchanced to fall into her hands. She aroused herself at last from herrevery and carelessly turned over the leaves of the review in a mannerwhich showed how little interest she felt in it. As she turned the firstpage a surprised cry escaped her, and her eyes were fastened upon thepamphlet with eager curiosity. Upon the frontispiece, where the Duchessede Berry's coat-of-arms is engraved, and in the middle of the shield,which was left empty at this time by the absence of the usual fleurs delys, was sketched with a pencil a bird whose head was surmounted by abaron's coronet.

Curious to know what could have caused her niece so much surprise,Mademoiselle de Corandeuil stretched out her neck and gazed for aninstant upon the page without seeing, at first, anything extraordinary,but finally her glance rested upon the armorial bearings, and shediscovered the new feature added to the royal Bourbon coat-of-arms.

"A cock!" exclaimed she, after a moment's reflection; "a cock uponMadame's shield! What can that mean, 'bon Dieu'! and it is not engravednor lithographed; it is drawn with a pencil."

"It is not a cock, it is a crowned gerfaut," said Madame de Bergenheim.

"A gerfaut! How do you know what a gerfaut is? At Corandeuil, in yourgrandfather's time, there was a falconry, and I have seen gerfauts there,but you--I tell you it is a cock, an old French cock; ugly thing! Whatyou take for a coronet--and it really does resemble one--is a badly drawncock's comb. How did this horrid creature come to be there? I shouldlike to know if such pretty tricks are permitted at the postoffice.People protest against the 'cabinet noir', but it is a hundred timesworse if one is permitted to outrage with impunity peaceable families intheir own homes. I mean to find out who has played this trick. Will yoube so kind as to ring the bell?"

"It really is very strange!" said Madame de Bergenheim, pulling thebell-rope with a vivacity which showed that she shared, if not theindignation, at least the curiosity of her aunt.

A servant in green livery appeared.

"Who went to Remiremont yesterday for the newspapers?" askedMademoiselle de Corandeuil.

"It was Pere Rousselet, Mademoiselle," replied the servant.

"Where is Monsieur de Bergenheim?"

"Monsieur le Baron is playing billiards with Mademoiselle Aline."

"Send Leonard Rousselet here."

And Mademoiselle de Corandeuil settled herself back in her chair with thedignity of a chancellor about to hold court.

CHAPTER III

A DIVIDED HOUSEHOLD

The servants in the castle of Bergenheim formed a family whose memberswere far from living in harmony. The Baron managed his householdhimself, and employed a large number of day-laborers, farm servants, andkitchen-girls, whom the liveried servants treated with great disdain.The rustics, on their side, resisted these privileged lackeys and calledthem "coxcombs" and "Parisians," sometimes accompanying these remarkswith the most expressive blows. Between these tribes of sworn enemiesa third class, much less numerous, found them selves in a criticalposition; these were the two servants brought by Mademoiselle deCorandeuil. It was fortunate for them that their mistress liked large,vigorous men, and had chosen them for their broad, military shoulders;but for that it would have been impossible for them to come out of theirdaily quarrels safe and sound.

The question of superiority between the two households had been the firstapple of discord; a number of personal quarrels followed to inflame them.They fought for their colors the whole time; the Bergenheim livery wasred, the Corandeuil green. There were two flags; each exalted his ownwhile throwing that of his adversaries in the mud. Greenhorn and crabwere jokes; cucumber and lobster were insults.

Such were the gracious terms exchanged every day between the two parties.In the midst of this civil war, which was carefully concealed from theirmasters' eyes, whose severity they feared, lived one rather singularpersonage. Leonard Rousselet, Pere Rousselet, as he was generallycalled, was an old peasant who, disheartened with life, had made variousefforts to get out of his sphere, but had never succeeded in doing so.Having been successively hairdresser, sexton, school-teacher, nurse, andgardener, he had ended, when sixty years old, by falling back to the verypoint whence he started. He had no particular employment in M. deBergenheim's house; he went on errands, cared for the gardens, anddoctored the mules and horses; he was a tall man, about as much at easein his clothing as a dry almond in its shell. A long, dark, yellow coatusually hung about the calves of his legs, which were covered with long,blue woollen stockings, and looked more like vine-poles than human legs;a conformation which furnished daily jokes for the other servants, towhich the old man deigned no response save a disdainful smile, grumblingthrough his teeth, "Menials, peasants without education." This latterspeech expressed the late gardener's scorn, for it had been his greatestgrief to pass for an uneducated man; and he had gathered from his variousconditions a singularly dignified and pretentious way of speaking.

In spite of his self-confidence, it was not without some emotion thatLeonard Rousselet responded to this call to appear in the drawing-roombefore the person he most feared in the chateau. His bearing showed thisfeeling when he presented himself at the drawing-room door, where hestood as grave and silent as Banquo's ghost. Constance arose at sight ofthis fantastic figure, barked furiously and darted toward a pair of legsfor which she seemed to share the irreverence of the liveried servants;but the texture of the blue stocking and the flesh which covered thetibia were rather too hard morsels for the dowager's teeth; she wasobliged to give up the attack and content herself with impotent barks,while the old man, who would gladly have given a month's wages to breakher jaw with the tip of his, boot, caressed her with his hand, saying,"Softly, pretty dear! softly, pretty little creature!" in ahypocritical tone.

This courtier-like conduct touched the old lady's heart and softened thesevere look upon her face.

The old man obeyed, walking across the floor with reverential bows, andtaking a position like a soldier presenting arms.

"You were the one," said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, "who was sent toRemiremont yesterday? Did you perform all the commissions that weregiven you?"

"It is not among the impossibilities, Mademoiselle, that I may haveneglected some of them," replied the old man, fearing to compromisehimself by a positive affirmative.

"Tell us, then, what you did."

Leonard wiped his nose behind his hat, like a well-bred orator, and,balancing himself upon his legs in a way not at all Bourbonic, he said:

"I went to the city that morning myself because Monsieur le Baron hadsaid the night before that he should hunt to-day, and that the groom wasto help Monsieur le Baron drive a wild boar out of the Corne woods.I reached Remiremont; I went to the butcher's; I purchased fivekilogrammes of dressed goods--"

"Of dressed goods at the butcher's!" exclaimed Madame de Bergenheim.

"I would say ten pounds of what uneducated people call pork," saidRousselet, pronouncing this last word in a strangled voice.

"Pass over these details," said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil. "You went tothe post-office."

"I went to the post-office, where I put in letters for Mademoiselle,Madame, Monsieur le Baron, and one from Mademoiselle Aline for Monsieurd'Artigues."

"Aline writing to her cousin! Did you know that?" said the old aunt,turning quickly toward her niece.

"Certainly; they correspond regularly," replied Clemence with a smilewhich seemed to say that she saw no harm in it.

The old maid shook her head and protruded her under lip, as much as tosay: We will attend to this another time.

Madame de Bergenheim, who was out of patience at this questioning, beganto speak in a quick tone which was a contrast to her aunt's solemnslowness.

"Rousselet," said she, "when you took the newspapers out of the office,did you notice whether the wrappers were intact, or whether they had beenopened?"

The good man half concealed his face in his cravat at this precisequestioning, and it was with embarrassment that he replied, after amoment's hesitation:

"Certainly, Madame--as to the wrappers--I do not accuse the postmaster--"

"If the journals were sealed when you received them, you are the only onewho could have opened them."

Rousselet straightened himself up to his full height, and, giving to hisnut-cracker face the most dignified look possible, he said in a solemntone:

"With due deference to you, Madame, Leonard Rousselet is well known.Fifty-seven years old on Saint-Hubert's day, I am incapable of openingnewspapers. When they have been read at the chateau and they send mewith them to the cure, I do not say--perhaps on my way--it is arecreation--and then the cure is Jean Bartou, son of Joseph Bartou, thetilemaker. But to read the newspaper before my masters have done so!Never! Leonard Rousselet is an old man incapable of such baseness.Baptized when a child; fifty-seven years on Saint-Hubert's day."

"When you speak of your pastor, do so in a more becoming manner,"interrupted Mademoiselle de Colrandeuil, although she herself in privatedid not speak of the plebeian priest in very respectful terms. But ifJoseph Bartou's son was always the son of Joseph Bartou to her, she meantthat he should be Monsieur le Cure to the peasants.

Madame de Bergenheim had not been much affected by Pere Rousselet'sharangue, and shook her head impatiently, saying in an imperative tone:

"I am certain that the newspapers have been opened by you, or by someperson to whom you have given them, and I wish to know at once by whom."

Rousselet dropped his pose of a Roman senator; passing his hand behindhis ears, a familiar gesture with people when in embarrassing positions,he continued less emphatically:

"I stopped on my way back at La Fauconnerie, at the 'Femme-sans-TeteInn'."

"And what were you doing in a tavern?" interrupted Mademoiselle deCorandeuil severely. "You know it is not intended that the servants inthis house should frequent taverns and such low places, which are notrespectable and corrupt the morals of the lower classes."

"Servants! lower classes! Old aristocrat!" growled Rousselet secretly;but, not daring to show his ill humor, he replied in a bland voice:

"If Mademoiselle had gone the same road that I did, with the sameconveyance, she would know that it is a rather thirsty stretch. Istopped at the 'Femme-sans-Tete' to wash the dust down my parched throat.Whereupon Mademoiselle Reine--the daughter of Madame Gobillot, thelandlady of the inn--Mademoiselle Reine asked me to allow her to look atthe yellow-journal in which there are fashions for ladies; I asked herwhy; she said it was so that she might see how they made their bonnets,gowns, and other finery in Paris. The frivolity of women!"

Mademoiselle de Corandeuil threw herself back in her chair and gave wayto an access of hilarity in which she rarely indulged.

"Mademoiselle Gobillot reading La Mode! Mademoiselle Gobillot talking ofgowns, shawls, and cashmeres! Clemence, what do you say to that? Youwill see, she will be ordering her bonnets from Herbault! Ha! ha! Thisis what is called the progress of civilization, the age of light!"

"Mademoiselle Gobillot," said Clemence, fixing a penetrating glance uponthe old man, "was not the only one who looked at La Mode. Was there noother person in the tavern who saw it?"

"Madame," replied Rousselet, forced from his last refuge, "there were twoyoung men taking their refection, and one of them wore a beard no longerthan a goat's. Madame will pardon me if I allow myself to use thisvulgar expression, but Madame wished to know all."

"And the other young man?"

"The other had his facial epidermis shaved as close as a lady's or mine.He was the one who held the journal while his comrade was smoking outsidethe door."

Madame de Bergenheim made no further inquiries, but fell into a profoundrevery. With eyes fixed upon the last number of La Mode, she seemed tostudy the slightest lines of the sketch that had been made thereon, as ifshe hoped to find a solution to the mystery. Her irregular breathing,and the bright flush which tinged her usually pale cheeks, would havedenoted to an eye-witness one of those tempests of the heart, thephysical manifestations of which are like those of a fever. The palewinter flower dying under the snow had suddenly raised its drooping headand recovered its color; the melancholy against which the young woman hadso vainly struggled had disappeared as if by enchantment. A little birdsurmounted by a coronet, the whole rather badly sketched, was the strangetalisman that had produced this change.

"They were commercial travellers," said the old aunt; "they alwayspretend to know everything. One of them, doubtless, when reading thewell-known name of Monsieur de Bergenheim upon the wrapper, sketched theanimal in question. These gentlemen of industry usually have a rathergood education! But this is giving the affair more importance than itmerits. Leonard Rousselet," said she, raising her voice as a judge doesin court when pronouncing his charge, "you were wrong to let anythingaddressed to your master leave your hands. We will excuse you this time,but I warn you to be more careful in future; when you go to MadameGobillot's, you may say to Mademoiselle Reine, from me, that if shewishes to read La Mode I shall be delighted to procure a subscriber toone of our journals. You may retire now."

Without waiting for this invitation to be repeated, Rousselet backed outof the room like an ambassador leaving the royal presence, escorted byConstance acting as master of ceremonies. Not having calculated thedistance, he had just bumped against the door, when it suddenly openedand a person of extreme vivacity bounded into the middle of the room.

It was a very young and petite lady, whose perfectly developed formpredicted an inclination to stoutness in the future. She belonged tothe Bergenheim family, if one could credit the resemblance between hercharacteristic features and several of the old portraits in the room;she wore a dark-brown riding-habit, a gray hat perched on one side,showing on the left a mass of very curly, bright blond hair. Thiscoiffure and the long green veil, floating at each movement like theplume in a helmet, gave a singularly easy air to the fresh face of thispretty amazon, who brandished, in guise of a lance, a billiard cue.

"Clemence," she exclaimed, "I have just beaten Christian; I made the redball, I made the white, and then the double stroke; I made all!Mademoiselle, I have just beaten Christian two games; is it not glorious?He made only eighteen points in a single game. Pere Rousselet, I havejust beaten Christian! Do you know how to play billiards?"

"Mademoiselle Aline, I am absolutely ignorant of the game," replied theold man, with as gracious a smile as was possible, while he tried torecover his equilibrium.

"You are needed no longer, Rousselet," said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil;"close the door as you go out."

When she had been obeyed, the old maid turned gravely toward Aline, whowas still dancing about the room, having seized her sister-in-law's handsin order to force her to share her childish joy.

"Mademoiselle," said she in a severe tone, "is it the custom at the'Sacred Heart' to enter a room without greeting the persons who are init, and to jump about like a crazy person? a thing that is neverpermitted even in a peasant's house."

Aline stopped short in the midst of her dance and blushed a trifle; shecaressed the pug dog, instead of replying, for she knew as well asRousselet that it was the surest way of softening the old maid's heart.The cajolery was lost this time.

"Do not touch Constance, I beg of you," exclaimed the aunt, as if adagger had been raised against the object of her love, "do not soil thispoor beast with your hands. What dreadful thing have you on yourfingers? Have you just come out of an indigo bag?"

The young girl blushed still deeper and gazed at her pretty hands, whichwere really a little daubed, and began to wipe them with an embroideredhandkerchief which she took from her pocket.

"It was the billiards," she said, in a low voice, "it is the blue chalkthey rub the cue with in order to make good shots and caroms."

"Make good shots! Caroms! Will you be so good as to spare us your slangspeeches," continued Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, who seemed to becomemore crabbed as the young girl's confusion increased. "What a fineeducation for a young lady! and one who has just come from the 'SacredHeart'! One that has taken five prizes not fifteen days ago! I reallydo not know what to think of those ladies, your teachers! And now Isuppose you are going to ride. Billiards and horses, horses andbilliards! It is fine! It is admirable!"

"But, Mademoiselle," said Aline, raising her large blue eyes, which wereon the verge of tears, "it is vacation now, and there is no wrong in myplaying a game of billiards with my brother; we have no billiards at the'Sacred Heart,' and it is such fun! It is like riding; the doctor saidthat it would be very healthful for me, and Christian hoped that it mightmake me grow a little."

As she said these words, the young girl glanced into the mirror in orderto see whether her brother's hopes had been realized; for her smallstature was her sole anxiety. But this glance was as quick as a flash,for she feared that the severe old maid would make this act of coquetryserve as the text for another sermon.

"You are not my niece, and I am thankful for it," continued the old lady."I am too old to begin another education; thank goodness, one is quiteenough! I have no authority over you, and your conduct is your brother'sconcern. The advice which I give you is entirely disinterested; youramusements are not such as seem to me proper for a young girl of goodbirth. It may be possible that it is the fashion today, so I will say nomore about it; but there is one thing more serious, upon which I shouldadvise you to reflect. In my youth, a young lady never was allowed towrite letters except to her father and mother. Your letters to yourcousin d'Artigues are inconsiderate--do not interrupt me--they areinconsiderate, and I should advise you to mend your ways."

Mademoiselle de Corandeuil arose, and, as she had found an opportunity toread three sermons in one forenoon, she could not say, like Titus, "Ihave wasted my morning." She left the room with a majestic step,escorted by her dog and satisfied with herself, bestowing an ironicalcurtsey on the young girl, which the latter did not think it necessary toreturn.

"How hateful your aunt is!" exclaimed Mademoiselle de Bergenheim to hersister-in-law, when they were alone. "Christian says that I must pay noattention to her, because all women become like her if they never marry.As for myself, I know very well that if I am an old maid I shall try notto hurt others' feelings--I, inconsiderate! When she can think ofnothing more to say, she scolds me about my cousin. It is hardly worthwhile, for what we write about! Alphonse wrote of nothing, in his lastletter, but of the partridge he had shot and his hunting costume; he issuch a boy! But why do you not say something? You sit there speechless;are you angry with me, too?"

She approached Clemence and was about to seat herself in her lap, whenthe latter arose to avoid this loving familiarity.

"So you really have beaten Christian," said she, in a listless tone;"are you going for a ride now? Your habit is very becoming."

"Truly? oh! I am so glad!" replied the young girl, planting herselfbefore the glass to look at her pretty figure. She pulled down herwaist, adjusted the folds of the skirt of her dress and arranged herveil, placed her hat on her head with a little more jaunty air, turnedthree quarters around to get a better view of her costume; in one word,she went through the coquettish movements that all pretty women learnupon entering society. On the whole, she seemed very well pleased withher examination, for she smiled and showed a row of small teeth whichwere as white as milk.

"I am sorry now," said she, "that I did not send for a black hat; my hairis so light that gray makes me look ugly. Do you not think so? Why doyou not reply, Clemence? One can not get a word out of you to-day; is itbecause you have your neuralgia?"

"I have a trifle of it," said Madame de Bergenheim, in order to give somepretext for her preoccupation.

"Now, then, you ought to come with us for a ride; the fresh air will doyou good. Look how fine the weather is now; we will have a good gallop.Will you? I will help you put on your habit, and in five minutes youwill be ready. Listen, I hear them in the yard now. I am going to tellChristian to have your horse saddled; come."

Aline took her sister-in-law by the hand, led her into the next room andopened the window to see what was going on outside, where the cracking ofwhips and several voices were to be heard. A servant was walking up anddown the yard leading a large horse which he had just brought from thestable; the Baron was holding a smaller one, which bore a lady's saddle,while he carefully examined all the buckles. As he heard the window openabove his head, he turned and bowed to Clemence with much chivalrousgallantry.

"You still refuse to go with us?" he asked.

"Is Aline going to ride Titania," replied Madame de Bergenheim, making aneffort to speak; "I am sure the mare will end by playing her some trick."

The young girl, who had a fancy for Titania because the skittish creaturehad the attraction of forbidden fruit, nudged her sister with her elbow,and made a little grimace.

"Aline is afraid of nothing," said the Baron; "we will enlist her withthe hussars as soon as she leaves the 'Sacred Heart.' Come, Aline."

The young girl kissed the Baroness, gathered up her skirt, and in a fewmoments was in the yard patting the neck of her dear brown mare.

"Up with you!" said Christian, taking his sister's foot in one handwhile he raised her with the other, placing her in the saddle as easilyas he would a six-year-old child. Then he mounted his large horse,saluted his wife, and the couple, starting at a trot, soon disappeareddown the avenue, which began at the gate of the courtyard.

As soon as they were out of sight, Clemence went to her room, took ashawl from her bed, and went rapidly down a secret stairway which ledinto the gardens.

CHAPTER IV

THE GALLANT IN THE GARDEN

Madame de Bergenheim's apartments occupied the first floor of the wing onthe left side of the house. On the ground floor were the library, abathroom, and several guest-chambers. The large windows had a modernlook, but they were made to harmonize with the rest of the house by meansof grayish paint. At the foot of this facade was a lawn surrounded by awall and orange-trees planted in tubs, forming a sort of English garden,a sanctuary reserved for the mistress of the castle, and which broughther, as a morning tribute, the perfume of its flowers and the coolness ofits shade.

Through the tops of the fir-trees and the tuliptrees, which rose abovethe group of smaller shrubs, the eye could follow the winding river untilit finally disappeared at the extremity of the valley. It was thispicturesque view and a more extensive horizon which had induced theBaroness to choose this part of the Gothic manor for her own privateapartments.

After crossing the lawn, the young woman opened a gate concealed byshrubs and entered the avenue by the banks of the river. This avenuedescribed a curve around the garden, and led to the principal entranceof the chateau. Night was approaching, the countryside, which had beenmomentarily disturbed by the storm, had resumed its customary serenity.The leaves of the trees, as often happens after a rain, looked as freshas a newly varnished picture. The setting sun cast long shadows throughthe trees, and their interlaced branches looked like a forest of boa-constrictors.

Clemence advanced slowly under this leafy dome, which became darker andmore mysterious every moment, with head bent and enveloped in a largecashmere shawl which fell in irregular folds to the ground. Madame deBergenheim had one of those faces which other women would call not at allremarkable, but which intelligent men ardently admire. At the firstglance she seemed hardly pretty; at the second, she attracted involuntaryadmiration; afterward, it was difficult to keep her out of one'sthoughts. Her features, which taken separately might seem irregular,were singularly harmonious, and, like a thin veil which tempers a toodazzling light, softened the whole expression. Her light chestnut hairwas arranged about the temples in ingenious waves; while her still darkereyebrows gave, at times, an imposing gravity to her face. The samecontrast was to be found in the mouth; the short distance which separatedit from the nose would indicate, according to Lavater, unusual energy;but the prominent underlip impregnated her smile with enchantingvoluptuousness. Her rather clearcut features, the exceeding brilliancyof her brown eyes, which seemed like diamonds set in jet, would, perhaps,have given to the whole rather too strong a character had not these eyeswhen veiled given to their dazzling rays a glamour of indescribablesoftness.

The effect produced by this face might be compared to that of a prism,every facet of which reflects a different color. The ardor burning underthis changeable surface, which, through some sudden cause, betrayed itspresence, was so deeply hidden, however, that it seemed impossible tofathom it completely. Was she a coquette, or simply a fashionable lady,or a devotee? In one word, was she imbued with the most egotisticalpride or the most exalted love? One might suppose anything, but knownothing; one remained undecided and thoughtful, but fascinated, the mindplunged into ecstatic contemplation such as the portrait of Monna Lisainspires. An observer might have perceived that she had one of thosehearts, so finely strung, from which a clever hand might makeincomparable harmonies of passion gush; but perhaps he would be mistaken.So many women have their souls only in their eyes!

Madame de Bergenheim's revery rendered the mysterious and impenetrableveil which usually enveloped her countenance more unfathomable yet. Whatsentiment made her bend her head and walk slowly as she meditated? Wasit the ennui of which she had just complained to her aunt? Was it puremelancholy? The monotonous ripple of the stream, the singing of thebirds in the woods, the long golden reflections under the trees, allseemed to unite in filling the soul with sadness; but neither themurmuring water, the singing birds, nor the sun's splendor was paid anyattention to by Madame de Bergenheim; she gave them neither a glance nora sigh. Her meditation was not revery, but thought; not thoughts of thepast, but of the present. There was something precise and positive inthe rapid, intelligent glance which flashed from her eyes when she raisedthem; it was as if she had a lucid foresight of an approaching drama.

A moment after she had passed over the wooden bridge which led from theavenue, a man wearing a blouse crossed it and followed her. Hearing thesound of hurried steps behind her, she turned and saw, not two steps fromher, the stranger who, during the storm, had vainly tried to attract herattention. There was a moment's silence. The young man stoodmotionless, trying to catch his breath, which had been hurried, either byemotion or rapid walking. Madame de Bergenheim, with head thrown backand widely opened eyes, looked at him with a more agitated than surprisedlook.

"It is you," exclaimed he, impulsively, "you whom I had lost and now findagain!"

"What madness, Monsieur!" she replied, in a low voice, putting out herhand as if to stop him.

"I beg of you, do not look at me so! Let me gaze at you and assuremyself that it is really you--I have dreamed of this moment for so long!Have I not paid dear enough for it? Two months passed away from you--from heaven! Two months of sadness, grief, and unhappiness! But you arepale! Do you suffer, too?"

"Much, at this moment."

"Clemence!"

"Call me Madame, Monsieur de Gerfaut," she interrupted, severely.

"Why should I disobey you? Are you not my lady, my queen?"

He bent his knee as a sign of bondage, and tried to seize her hand, whichshe immediately withdrew. Madame de Bergenheim seemed to pay very littleattention to the words addressed her; her uneasy glances wandered inevery direction, into the depths of the bushes and the slightestundulations of the ground. Gerfaut understood this pantomime.He glanced, in his turn, over the place, and soon discovered at somedistance a more propitious place for such a conversation as theirs.It was a semicircular recess in one of the thickets in the park.A rustic seat under a large oak seemed to have been placed thereexpressly for those who came to seek solitude and speak of love.From there, one could see the approach of danger, and, in case of alarm,the wood offered a secure retreat. The young man had had enoughexperience in gallant strategies to seize the advantage of this position,and wended his steps in that direction while continuing to converse.It may be that instinct which, in a critical situation, makes us followmechanically an unknown impulse; it may be that the same idea of prudencehad also struck her, for Madame de Bergenheim walked beside him.

"If you could understand what I suffered," said he, "when I found thatyou had left Paris! I could not discover at first where you had gone;some spoke of Corandeuil, others of Italy. I thought, from this hastydeparture and the care you took to conceal your abiding-place, that youwere fleeing from me. Oh! tell me that I was mistaken; or, if it is truethat you wished to separate yourself from me, say that this cruel resolvehad left your mind, and that you will pardon me for following you! Youwill pardon me, will you not? If I trouble or annoy you, lay the blameentirely upon my love, which I can not restrain, and which drives me attimes to do the most extravagant things; call it reckless, insane love,if you will; but believe it to be true and devoted!"

Clemence replied to this passionate tirade by simply shaking her head asa child does who hears the buzzing of a wasp and fears its sting; then,as they reached the bench, she said with affected surprise:

"You have made a mistake, this is not your road; you should have goneover the bridge."

There was a little palpable insincerity in these words; for if the roadwhich they had taken did not lead to the bridge, neither did it lead tothe chateau, and the mistake, if there was one, was mutual.

"Listen to me, I beg of you," replied the lover, with 'a supplicatingglance, "I have so many things to say to you! I beg of you, grant me onemoment."

"Afterward, will you obey me?"

"Only a few words, and I will then do all that you wish."

She hesitated a moment; then, her conscience doubtless lulled by thispromise, she seated herself and made a gesture for M. de Gerfaut to dolikewise. The young man did not make her repeat this invitation, buthypocritically seated himself on the farther end of the seat.

"Now, talk reasonably," she said, in a calm tone. "I suppose that youare on your way to Germany or Switzerland, and as you passed near me youwished to favor me with a call. I ought to be proud of this mark ofrespect from a man so celebrated as you are, although you are ratherhiding your light under this garb. We are not very strict as to dress inthe country, but, really, yours is quite unceremonious. Tell me, wheredid you find that headdress?"

These last words were spoken with the careless, mocking gayety of a younggirl.

Gerfaut smiled, but he took off his cap. Knowing the importance thatwomen attach to little things, and what an irreparable impression an uglycravat or unblacked boots might produce in the most affecting moments, hedid not wish to compromise himself by a ridiculous head-gear. He passedhis hand through his hair, pushing it back from his large, broadforehead, and said softly:

"You know very well that I am not going to Germany or Switzerland, andthat Bergenheim is the end of my journey, as it has been its aim."

"Then will you be so good as to tell me what your intention was in takingsuch a step, and whether you have realized how strange, inconsiderate,and in every way extravagant your conduct is?"

"I have realized it; I know it. You were here, I came because there isa loadstone within you, that is my heart's sole attraction, and I mustfollow my heart. I came because I wanted to see your beautiful eyesagain, to be intoxicated by your sweet voice, because to live away fromyou is impossible for me; because your presence is as necessary to myhappiness as air to my life; because I love you. That is why I came.Is it possible that you do not understand me, that you will not pardonme?"

"I do not wish to believe that you are speaking seriously," saidClemence, with increased severity. "What sort of an idea can you have ofme, if you think I will allow such conduct? And then, even if I werefoolish enough for that-which I never shall be--to what would it lead?You know perfectly well that it is impossible for you to come to thecastle, as you are not acquainted with Monsieur de Bergenheim, and Icertainly shall not introduce you to him. My aunt is here, and she wouldpersecute me the whole day long with questions! Mon Dieu! how youdisturb me! how unhappy you make me!"

"Your aunt never goes out, so she will not see me, unless I am officiallyreceived at the chateau, and then there could be no danger."

"But the servants she brought with her, and mine, who have seen you inher house! I tell you, the whole thing is as perilous as it is crazy,and you will make me die of fright and chagrin."

"If one of those servants should chance to meet me, how could he everrecognize me in this costume? Do not fear, I shall be prudent! I wouldlive in a log cabin, if necessary, for the joy of seeing youoccasionally."

Madame de Bergenheim smiled disdainfully.

"That would be quite pastoral," she replied; "but I believe that suchdisguises are seldom seen now except upon the stage. If this is a sceneout of a play, which you wish to rehearse in order to judge its effect,I warn you that it is entirely lost upon me, and that I consider the playitself very ill-timed, improper, and ridiculous. Besides, for a man oftalent and a romantic poet you have not exhibited any very greatimagination. It is a classical imitation, nothing better. There issomething like it in mythology, I believe. Did not Apollo disguisehimself as a shepherd?"

Nothing more is to be feared by a lover than a witty woman who does notlove or loves but half; he is obliged to wear velvet gloves in all suchsentimental controversies; he owes it to himself out of propriety first,out of prudence afterward. For it is not a question of taking part in aconversation for the simple pleasure of brilliant repartee; and while heapplies himself carefully to play his part well, he feels that he hasbeen dexterously cut to pieces with a well-sharpened knife.

Gerfaut indulged in these unpleasant reflections while gazing at Madamede Bergenheim. Seated up on the bench as proudly as a queen upon herthrone, with shining eyes, scornful lips, and arms tightly folded underher cashmere shawl, with that haughty gesture familiar to her, the youngwoman looked as invulnerable under this light wrap as if she had beencovered with Ajax's shield, formed, if we can credit Homer, of sevenbulls' hides and a sheet of brass.

After gazing at this scornful face for a moment, Gerfaut glanced at hiscoarse blouse, his leggings, and muddy boots. His usual dainty ways madethe details of this costume yet more shocking to him, and he exaggeratedthis little disaster. He felt degraded and almost ridiculous. Thethought took away for a moment his presence of mind; he beganmechanically to twirl his hat in his hands, exactly as if he had beenPere Rousselet himself. But instead of being hurtful to him, thisawkwardness served him better than the eloquence of Rousseau or thecoolness of Richelieu. Was it not a genuine triumph for Clemence toreduce a man of his recognized talent, who was usually anything buttimid, to this state of embarrassment? What witty response, whatpassionate speech could equal the flattery of this poet with bent headand this expression of deep sadness upon his face?

Madame de Bergenheim continued her raillery, but in a softer tone.

"This time, instead of staying in a cabin, the god of poetry hasdescended to a tavern. Have you not established your generalheadquarters at La Fauconnerie?"

"How did you know that?"

"By the singular visiting-card that you drew in La Mode. Do I not knowyour coat-of-arms? An expressive one, as my aunt would say."

At these words, which probably referred to some letters, doubtless readwithout very much anger, since they were thus recalled, Gerfaut tookcourage.

"Yes," said he, "I am staying at La Fauconnerie; but I can not stay thereany longer, for I think your servants make the tavern their pleasure-ground. I must come to some decision. I have two propositions to submitto you: the first is, that you will allow me to see you occasionally;there are numerous promenades about here; you go out alone, so it wouldbe very easy."

"Let us hear the second," said Clemence, with a shrug of the shoulders.

"If you will not grant my first, I beg of you to persuade your aunt thatshe is ill and to take her with you to Plombieres or Baden. The seasonis not very far advanced; there, at least, I should be able to see you."

"Let us end this folly," said the Baroness; "I have listened patiently toyou; now, in your turn, listen to me. You will be sensible, will younot? You will leave me and go. You will go to Switzerland, and returnto the Montanvert, where you met me for the first time, which I shallalways remember, if you, yourself, do not make it painful for me to doso. You will obey me, Octave, will you not? Give me this proof of youresteem and friendship. You know very well that it is impossible for meto grant what you ask; believe me, it is painful to me to be forced torefuse you. So, say farewell to me; you shall see me again next winterin Paris. Adieu!"

She arose and extended her hand; he took it, but, thinking to profit bythe emotion betrayed by Madame de Bergenheim's voice, he exclaimed in asort of transport:

"No! I will not wait until next winter to see you. I was about tosubmit to your will; if you repulse me I will consult only myself; if yourepulse me, Clemence, I warn you that tomorrow I shall be in your house,seated at your table and admitted to your drawing-room."

"You?"

"I!"

"To-morrow?"

"To-morrow."

"And how will you do it, pray?" said she, defiantly.

"That is my secret, Madame," he replied, coldly.

Although her curiosity was greatly aroused, Clemence felt that it wouldbe beneath her to ask any more questions. She replied with anaffectation of mocking indifference:

"Since I am to have the pleasure of seeing you tomorrow, I hope you willpermit me to leave you today. You know that I am not well, and it isshowing me very little attention to allow me to stand here in this wetgrass."

She raised her skirt a trifle and extended her foot, showing her slipper,which was really covered with pearly drops of rain. Octave threw himselfquickly upon his knees, and, taking a silk handkerchief from his pocket,began to wipe away all traces of the storm. His action was so rapid thatMadame de Bergenheim stood for a moment motionless and speechless, butwhen she felt her foot imprisoned in the hand of the man who had justdeclared war against her, her surprise gave place to a mingled feeling ofimpatience and anger. She drew her foot back with a sudden movement, butunfortunately the foot went one way and the slipper another. A fencing-master, who sees his foil carried ten steps away from him by a backstroke, could not feel more astonishment than that felt by Madame deBergenheim. Her first movement was to place her foot, so singularlyundressed, upon the ground; an instinctive horror of the damp, muddy walkmade her draw it quickly back. She stood thus with one foot lifted; themovement which she had started to make threw her off her balance and asshe was about to fall she extended her hand to find some support. Thissupport proved to be Octave's head, for he still remained upon his knees.With the usual presumption of lovers, he believed that he had the rightto give her the assistance which she seemed to ask for, and passed hisarm about the slender waist which was bent toward him.

Clemence drew herself up at once, and with frowning brow regained hercoolness, standing upright upon one foot, like Cupid in the painting byGerard; like him, also, she seemed about to fly away, there was so muchairy lightness in her improvised attitude.

Many puerile incidents and ridiculous events occur in life, which itwould render impossible for the most imperturbable of mandarins tostruggle against in order to preserve his gravity. When Louis XIV, thisking so expert in courtly ways, dressed his hair alone behind hiscurtains before presenting himself to the eyes of his courtiers, hefeared that this disarray of costume might compromise even his royalmajesty. So, upon such authority, if one looks upon a complete head ofhair as indispensable to the dignity of manhood, the same reasoningshould exist for the covering of one's feet. In less than a second,Madame de Bergenheim comprehended that in such circumstances prudish airswould fail of their effect. Meanwhile, the agreeable side of herposition operated within her; she felt unable to keep up the show ofanger that she had wished to assume. The involuntary smile upon her lipssmoothed her forehead as a ray of sun dissipates a cloud. Thus, disposedto clemency by reflection or fascination, it was in a very sweet andcoaxing voice that she said: "Octave, give me my slipper." Gerfaut gazedat the lovely face bent toward him with an expression of childishentreaty, then he glanced with an irresolute air at the trophy which heheld in his hand. This slipper, which was as small as Cinderella's, wasnot green, but gray, the lining was of rose-colored silk, and the wholewas so pretty, coquettish, and dainty that it seemed impossible its ownercould be vexed with him if he examined it closely. "I will give it backto you," said he, at last, "on condition that you will allow me to put iton for you."

"As to that, certainly not," said she, in a sharp tone; "I should muchprefer to leave it with you and return home as I am."

Gerfaut shook his head and smiled incredulously.

"Think of your delicate lungs and of this terrible mud?"

Clemence drew her foot suddenly back under her skirt, concealing itentirely from the sight of the young man, who gazed at it more than shethought proper. Then she exclaimed, with the obstinacy of a spoiledchild:

"Very well! I will return hopping on one foot; I could hop very wellwhen I was young, I should be able to do so now."

To give more weight to this observation, she took two little jumps with agrace and sprightliness worthy of Mademoiselle Taglioni.

Octave arose.

"I have had the pleasure of seeing you waltz," said he; "but I admit thatI shall be pleased to witness a new dance, and one executed for mealone."

As he said these words, he pretended to conceal the innocent object ofthis dispute in his blouse. The pretty dancer saw by this that acompromise would be necessary. Recourse to concessions is often as fatalto women as to kings; but what can one do when every other exit isclosed? Obliged by absolute necessity to accept the conditions imposedupon her, Clemence wished at least to cover this defeat with sufficientdignity, and escape from an awkward position with the honors of war.

"Get down upon your knees, then," she said, haughtily, "and put on myslipper, since you exact it, and let this end this ridiculous scene.I think you should be too proud to regard a maid's privilege as a favor."

"As a favor which a king would envy," replied Gerfaut, in a voice astender as hers had been disdainful. He put one knee on the ground,placed the little slipper upon the other and seemed to await his enemy'spleasure. But the latter found a new subject for complaint in thepedestal offered her, for she said with increased severity:

"On the ground, Monsieur; and let that end it."

He obeyed, without a reply, after giving her a reproachful glance bywhich she was as much moved as by his silent obedience. She put out herfoot with a more gracious air, and thrust it into the slipper. To be acorrect historian, we must admit that this time she left it in the handswhich softly pressed it longer than was strictly necessary. When Octavehad fastened it with skill but with no haste, he bent his head andpressed his lips to the openwork stocking, through which he could catch aglimpse of white, satiny skin.

"My husband!" exclaimed Madame de Bergenheim, as she heard the clatterof horses' hoofs at the end of the avenue; and without adding a word shefled rapidly toward the chateau. Gerfaut arose from his position no lessrapidly and darted into the woods. A rustling of branches which he hearda few steps from him made him uneasy at first, for he feared that aninvisible witness had been present at this imprudent interview; but hewas soon reassured by the silence which reigned about him.

After the Baron and his sister had passed, he crossed the avenue and soondisappeared over the winding road on the other side of the bridge.

CHAPTER V

ART AND MUSIC

A league below the castle of Bergenheim, the village of La Fauconneriewas situated, at the junction of several valleys the principal of which,by means of an unfrequented road, opened communications between Lorraineand upper Alsatia. This position had been one of some importance in theMiddle Ages, at the time when the Vosges were beset with partisans fromthe two countries, always ready to renew border hostilities, theeverlasting plague of all frontiers. Upon a cliff overlooking thevillage were situated the ruins which had given the village its name;it owed it to the birds of prey [falcons, in French: 'faucons'], thehabitual guests of the perpendicular rocks. To render proper justice towhom it belongs, we should add that the proprietors of La Fauconnerie hadmade it a point at all times to justify this appellation by customs morewarlike than hospitable; but for some time the souvenirs of their feudalprowess had slept with their race under the ruins of the manor; thechateau had fallen without the hamlet extending over its ruins; from abourg of some importance La Fauconnerie had come down to a small village,and had nothing remarkable about it but the melancholy ruins of thechateau.

It would be impossible to imagine anything more miserably prosaic thanthe houses that bordered the road, in regular order; their one story withits thatched roof blackened by rain; the sorry garden surrounded by alittle low wall and presenting as vegetables patches of cabbage and a fewrows of beans, gave an idea of the poverty of its inhabitants. Save thechurch, which the Bishop of St.-Die had caused to be built, and the mansethat had naturally shared this fortunate privilege, only one house roseabove the condition of a thatched cottage; this was the tavern called 'LaFemme-sans-Tete', and kept by Madame Gobillot, an energetic woman, whodid not suggest in the least the name of her establishment, "The HeadlessWoman."

A large sign shared with the inevitable bunch of juniper, the honor ofdecorating the entrance and justified an appellation one might haveregarded as disrespectful to the fair sex. The original design had beenrepainted in dazzling colors by the artist charged with restoring thechurch. This alliance of the profane with the sacred had, it is true,scandalized the parish priest, but he did not dare say a word too much,as Madame Gobillot was one of his most important parishioners. A womanin a rose-colored dress and large panniers, standing upon very high-heeled shoes, displayed upon this sign the rejuvenated costume of 1750;an enormous green fan, which she held in her hand, entirely concealed herface, and it was through this caprice of the painter that the tavern cameto have the name it bore.

At the right of this original figure was painted, in a very appetizingmanner, a pie out of whose crust peeped a trio of woodcocks' heads. Alittle farther, upon a bed of watercresses, floated a sort of marinemonster, carp or sturgeon, trout or crocodile. The left of the sign wasnone the less tempting; it represented a roast chicken lying upon itsback with its head under its wing, and raising its mutilated legs in theair with a piteous look; it had for its companion a cluster of crabs, ofa little too fine a red to have been freshly caught. The whole wasinterspersed with bottles and glasses brimful of wine. There were stonejugs at each extremity, the sergeants of the rear-rank of thisgastronomic platoon, whose corks had blown out and were still flying inspace, while a bubbling white foam issued from their necks and fellmajestically over their sides after describing a long parabola. Amisleading sign, indeed!

A remorseful conscience, or a desire to protect herself from all reproachof mendacity on the part of the customers, had made the owner of the innplace a wire cupboard upon the sill of one of the windows near the door;in which receptacle were some eggs on a plate, a bit of bread with whichDavid might have loaded his sling, a white glass bottle filled with aliquid of some color intended to represent kirsch, but which was inreality only water. This array gave a much more correct idea of theresources of the establishment and formed a menu like an anchorite'srepast, and even this it was difficult for the kitchen's resources tomaintain.

A carriage-gate led into the yard and to the stables, cart-drivers beingthe principal habitues of the place; another entrance, the one which wascrowned with the fantastic sign, was flanked by two stone seats andopened directly into the kitchen, which also served as parlor for theguests. A fireplace with an enormous mantel, under which a whole familymight warm themselves, occupied the middle of one side of the room.There was a large oven in one corner which opened its huge mouth, thedoor partly hiding the shovels and tongs employed in its service. Two orthree thoroughly smoked hams, suspended from the beams, announced thatthere was no fear of a famine before the gastronomic massacres ofMiddlemas. Opposite the window, a large, polished oak dresser displayedan array of large flowered plates and little octagon-shaped glasses. Ahuge kitchen kettle and some wooden chairs completed the furniture of theroom.

From the kitchen one passed into another room, where a permanent tablesurrounded by benches occupied its entire length. The wall paper, oncegreen, was now a dirty gray; it was embellished by half a dozen blackframes representing the story of Prince Poniatowski, who shares the honorof decorating village inns with Paul and Virginia and Wilhelm Tell.On the upper floor-for this aristocratic dwelling had a second story--several sleeping-rooms opened upon a long corridor, at the end of whichwas a room with two beds in it. This room was very neat and clean, andwas destined for any distinguished guests whose unlucky star led theminto this deserted country.

That evening the inn presented an unaccustomed lively appearance; thelong seats, each side of the door, were occupied by rustics strippinghemp, by some village lads, and three or four cart-drivers smoking shortpipes as black as coal. They were listening to two girls who weresinging in a most mournful way a song well known to all in this country:

"Au chateau de Belfort Sont trois jolies filles, etc."

The light from the hearth, shining through the open door, left this groupin the shadow and concentrated its rays upon a few faces in the interiorof the kitchen. First, there was Madame Gobillot in person, wearing along white apron, her head covered with an immense cap. She went fromoven to dresser, and from dresser to fireplace with a very important air.A fat little servant disappeared frequently through the dining-room door,where she seemed to be laying the cover for a feast. With thatparticular dexterity of country girls, she made three trips to carry twoplates, and puffed like a porpoise at her work, while the look offrightened amazement showed upon her face that every fibre of herintelligence was under unaccustomed tension. Before the fire, and uponthe range, three or four stew-pans were bubbling. A plump chicken wasturning on the spit, or, rather, the spit and its victim were turned by abright-looking boy of about a dozen years, who with one hand turned thehandle and with the other, armed with a large cooking-ladle, basted theroast.

But the two principal persons in this picture were a young country girland a young man seated opposite her, who seemed busily engaged in makingher portrait. One would easily recognize, from the airs and elegance ofthe young woman, that she was the daughter of the house, MademoiselleReine Gobillot, the one whose passion for fashion-plates had excitedMademoiselle de Corandeuil's anger. She sat as straight and rigid uponher stool as a Prussian corporal carrying arms, and maintained anexcessively gracious smile upon her lips, while she made her bust moreprominent by drawing back her shoulders as far as she could.

The young painter, on the contrary, was seated with artistic abandon,balancing himself upon a two-legged chair with his heels resting againstthe mantel; he was dressed in a black velvet coat, and a very small TamO'Shanter cap of the same material covered the right side of his head,allowing a luxuriant crop of brown hair to be seen upon the other side.This head-dress, accompanied by long moustaches and a pointed beardcovering only his chin, gave the stranger's face the mediaeval look heprobably desired. This travelling artist was sketching in an albumplaced upon his knees, with a freedom which indicated perfect confidencein his own talents. A cigar, skilfully held in one corner of his mouth,did not prevent him from warbling between each puff some snatches ofItalian airs of which he seemed to possess a complete repertoire. Inspite of this triple occupation he sustained a conversation with the easeof a man who, like Caesar, could have dictated to three secretaries atonce if necessary.

"Dell' Assiria, ai semidei Aspirar--"

"I have already asked you not to purse up your mouth so, MademoiselleReine; it gives you a Watteau air radically bourgeois."

"What sort of air does it give me?" she asked, anxiously.

"A Watteau, Regence, Pompadour air. You have a large mouth, and we willleave it natural, if you please."

"I have a large mouth!" exclaimed Reine, blushing with anger; "howpolite you are!"

And she pinched up her lips until she reduced them to nearly the size ofMontmorency cherries.

"Stop this vulgar way of judging of art, queen of my heart. Learn thatthere is nothing more appetizing than a large mouth. I do not care forrosebud mouths!"

"If it is the fashion!" murmured the young girl, in a pleased tone, asshe spread out horizontally her vermillion lips, which might haveextended from ear to ear, not unlike--if we can credit that slanderer,Bussy-Rabutin-the amorous smile of Mademoiselle de la Valliere.

"Why did you not let me put on my gold necklace?

That would have given my portrait a smarter look. Sophie Mitoux had herspainted with a coral comb and earrings. How shabby this style is!"

"I beg of you, my good Reine, let me follow my own fancy; an artist is abeing of inspiration and spontaneity. Meanwhile, you make your bust tooprominent; there is no necessity for you to look as if you had swalloweda whale. L'art n'est pas fait pour toi, tu n'en as pas besoin. Upon myword, you have a most astonishing bust; a genuine Rubens."

Madame Gobillot was an austere woman, though an innkeeper, and watchedover her daughter with particular care, lest any ill-sounding orinsiduous expression should reach her child's ear. Considering thecompany which frequented the house, the task was not easy. So she wasshocked at the young man's last words, and although she did not quiteunderstand his meaning, for that very reason she thought she scented aconcealed poison more dangerous for Mademoiselle Reine than the awfulwords used by the drivers. She dared not, however, show her displeasureto a customer, and one who seemed disposed to spend money freely; and, asusual in such circumstances, she vented her displeasure upon the personsimmediately under her charge.

"Hurry now, Catherine! Will you never finish setting the table? I toldyou before to put on the Britannia; these gentlemen are used to eatingwith silver. Listen to me when I am talking to you. Who washed theseglasses? What a shame! You are as afraid of water as a mad-dog. Andyou! what are you staring at that chicken for, instead of basting it?If you let it burn you shall go to bed without any supper. If it is notprovoking!" she continued, in a scolding tone, visiting her stewpans oneafter another, "everything is dried up; a fillet that was as tender as itcould be will be scorched! This is the third time that I have dilutedthe gravy. Catherine! bring me a dish. Now, then, make haste."

"One thing is certain," interrupted the artist, "that Gerfaut is making afool of me. I do not see what can have become of him. Tell me, MadameGobillot, are you certain that an amateur of art and the picturesque,travelling at this hour, would not be eaten by wolves or plundered byrobbers in these mountains?"

"Our mountains are safe, Monsieur," replied the landlady, with offendeddignity; "except for the pedler who was assassinated six months ago andwhose body was found in the Combe-aux-Renards--"

"And the driver who was stopped three weeks ago in the Fosse," addedMademoiselle Reine; "the thieves did not quite kill him, but he is stillin the hospital at Remiremont."

"Oh! that is enough to make one's hair stand on end! This is worse thanthe forest of Bondy! Truly, if I knew what direction my friend took thismorning, I would follow him with my pistols."

"Here is Fritz," said Madame Gobillot. "He met a stranger in the woodswho gave him ten sous for telling him the way to Bergenheim. From hisdescription, it seems that it must be the gentleman you speak of. Tellus about it, Fritz."

The child related in his Alsatian patois his meeting of the afternoon,and the artist was convinced that it was Gerfaut he had met.

"He must be wandering in the valley," said he, "dreaming about our play.But did you not say something about Bergenheim? Is there a village nearhere by that name?"

"There is a chateau of that name, Monsieur, and it is about a league fromhere as you go up the river."

"And does this chateau happen to belong to the Baron de Bergenheim--a large, blond, good-looking fellow, with rather reddish moustache?"

"That's the picture of its owner, only that the Baron does not wear amoustache now, not since he left the service. Do you know him,Monsieur?"

"Yes, I know him! Speaking of service, I once rendered him one which wasof some account. Is he at the castle?"

"Yes, Monsieur, and his lady also."

"Ah! his wife, too. She was a Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, of Provence.Is she pretty?"

"Pretty," said Mademoiselle Gobillot, pursing up her lips, "that dependsupon tastes. If a person likes a face as white as a ghost, she is. And,then, she is so thin! It certainly can not be very difficult to have aslender waist when one is as thin as that."

"Not everybody can have rosy cheeks and a form like an enchantress," saidthe painter, in a low voice, as he looked at his model in a seductivemanner.

"There are some people who think that Monsieur's sister is prettier thanMadame," observed Madame Gobillot.

"O mother! how can you say that?" exclaimed Reine with a disdainfulair. "Mademoiselle Aline! A child of fifteen! She certainly is notwanting in color; her hair is such a blond, such a red, rather! It looksas if it were on fire."

"Do not say anything against red hair, I beg of you," said the artist,"it is an eminently artistic shade, which is very popular."

"With some it may be so, but with Christians! It seems to me that blackhair--"

"When it is long and glossy like yours, it is wonderful," said the youngman, darting another killing glance. "Madame Gobillot, would you mindclosing that door? One can not hear one's self think here. I am alittle critical, so far as music is concerned, and you have two sopranosoutside who deafen me with their shrieks."

"It is Marguerite Mottet and her sister. Since our cure has taken toteaching them, they bore us to death, coming here and singing their finesongs. One of these days I shall notify them to leave."

As she said these words, Madame Gobillot went to close the door in orderto please her guest; as soon as her back was turned, the latter leanedforward with the boldness of a Lovelace and imprinted a very loving kissupon the rosy cheek of Mademoiselle Reine, who never thought of drawingback until the offence was committed.

The sole witness to this incident was the little kitchen drudge, whoseblue eyes had been fastened upon the artist's moustache and beard forsome time. They seemed to plunge him into a deep admiration. But atthis unexpected event his amazement was so complete that he dropped hisspoon into the ashes.

"Eh! mein herr, do you wish to go to bed without your supper, as hasbeen promised you?" said the young man, while the beautiful Reine wastrying to recover her countenance. "Now, then, sing us a little songinstead of staring at me as if I were a giraffe. Your little cook has anice voice, Madame Gobillot. Now, then, mein herr, give us a littleGerman lied. I will give you six kreutzers if you sing in tune, and aflogging if you grate upon my ears."

He arose and put his album under his arm.

"And my portrait?" exclaimed the young girl, whose cheek was stillburning from the kiss she had just received.

The painter drew near her, smiling, and said in a mysterious tone:

"When I make a portrait of a pretty person like you, I never finish itthe first day. If you will give me another sitting in the morning beforeyour mother arises I promise to finish this sketch in a way that will notbe displeasing to you."

Mademoiselle Reine saw that her mother was watching her, and walked awaywith no reply save a glance which was not discouraging.

"Wait a moment! What devilish key are you singing that in? La, la, la,la; mi, in E major, key of four sharps. By Jove, my little man! here isa fellow who sings B's and C's away up in the clouds; an E sharp, too!"he continued, with astonishment, while the singer made a hold upon thekeynote an octave higher in a voice as clear as a crystal.

The artist threw into the fire the cigar which he had just lighted, andbegan pacing the kitchen floor, paying no more attention to MademoiselleReine, who felt a little piqued at seeing herself neglected for a kitchendrudge.

"A rare voice," said he, as he took a great stride; "per Bacco, a veryrare voice. Added to that, he sings very deep; two octaves and a half,a clear, ringing tone, the two registers are well united. He would makean admirable 'primo musico'. And the little fellow has a pretty face,too. After supper I will make him wash his face, and I will sketch it.I am sure that in less than a year's study, he could make his debut withthe greatest success. By Jove! I have an idea! Why does not thatGerfaut return? Now, then, he would do very well for 'Pippo' in LaGazza, or for Gemma in Wilhelm Tell. But we must have a role for him tomake his debut in. What subject could we take properly to introduce achild's part? Why does not that Gerfaut come? A child, girl or boy; aboy part would be better. 'Daniel,' of course; viva 'Daniel!' 'TheChaste Suzannah,' opera in three acts. Madame Begrand would be fine asSuzannah. By Jove! if Meyerbeer would only take charge of the score!That falls to him by right as a compatriot. Then, that would give him anopportunity to break lances with Mehul and Rossini. If that fool of aGerfaut would only come! Let us see what would be the three characters:Soprano, Suzannah; contralto, David; the old men, two basses; as for thetenor, he would be, of course, Suzannah's husband. There would be asuperb entrance for him upon his return from the army, 'cavatinaguerriera con cori'. Oh! that terrible Gerfaut! the wolves must havedevoured him. If he were here, we would knock off the thing between ourfruit and cheese."

Just at that moment the door opened suddenly. "Is supper ready?" askeda deep voice.

"Eh, here he is, the dear friend!

"O surprise extreme! Grand Dieu! c'est lui-meme--

alive and in the flesh."

"And hungry," said Gerfaut, as he dropped into a chair near the fire.

"Would you like to compose an opera in three acts, The Chaste Suzannah,music by Meyerbeer?"

"I should like some supper first. Madame Gobillot, I beseech you, giveme something to eat. Thanks to your mountain air, I am almost starved."

"But, Monsieur, we have been waiting two hours for you," retorted thelandlady, as she made each stewpan dance in succession.

"That is a fact," said the artist; "let us go into the dining-room, then.

"Gia la mensa a preparata."

"While supping, I will explain my plans to you. I have just found aDaniel in the ashes--"

"My dear Marillac, drop your Daniel and Suzannah," replied Gerfaut, as hesat down to the table; "I have something much more important to talk toyou about."

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

Evident that the man was above his costume; a rare thing!Mania for fearing that she may be compromisedMaterial in you to make one of Cooper's redskinsRecourse to concessions is often as fatal to women as to kingsThose whom they most amuse are those who are best worth amusingTrying to conceal by a smile (a blush)When one speaks of the devil he appearsWiped his nose behind his hat, like a well-bred orator